


Leave It On

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 23:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13018659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Tension and release.





	Leave It On

It is a strange sensation, and one he doesn’t really understand at first. Or - more honestly - he understands, and he refuses to acknowledge. As if denying the name for it will remove its power, as if - like he himself - what you call it makes it what you want it to be.

But it’s there.

It makes little sense to him. The urge to procreate - in and of itself - is a basal one, a primal one, and one he knows in _theory_ that it’s there to continue the species. Pure and simple. Which is why feeling that - that _pull_ \- is…

He has no desire to continue his lineage. None. And how can he be ‘attracted’ to her, if he has never seen her? Just a voice, a frame obscured by blocky, curvy shapes… and a bright, blazing sense of… of _self_. A knowledge, a certainty. She knows who she is, and what she wants.

(He wonders if he ever felt that, truly.)

(Perhaps. Though he tries to make himself believe he feels it now.)

(It rarely works.)

But he wants her. He wants her, and it’s… _consuming._ It’s **frustrating**. It’s overwhelming in how loud the call in his blood is. 

He has no desire to sire children on her. Children - in his experience - just from _being one_ \- are a disappointment.

But he wants her.

The trouble is, she wants him, too.

***

It’s there in the slightly deeper growl in her voice, in the way - oh so subtle - she cocks her head as if to listen deeper to him. In the way her _sense_ seems to both blaze like a star and pull like a black hole. She wants him.

He wants her.

There is no reason not to, and every reason not to.

***

The swell of a hard victory makes his mouth tang copper blood, but it isn’t his. Or it is. Did he bite his lip clean through? He can’t tell. They won. They won. 

She is jubilant, and victorious. She knows she has won, and he knows he has won, and sightless masks lock impossible eyes. They mirror, in a way. He sucks in all light, and she reflects it. But their eyes - the gap, the space where they should be - echo like mirrors, reflecting on and on into infinity.

He wants her.

She wants him.

***

Time is strange. It passes differently, no matter what physics says. There is a gap, a blur, when they were apart and now are not. Something between, but it’s fuzzier than the future.

The only thing he knows for sure is _now_.

Pressed against the wall. He holds her wrists - unable to even feel the pulse of her blood through the layers between them, but feeling it surge through the Force all the same. She shoves back, and he holds.

_Fight me. Make me. Take me._

He knows. He knows, somehow. She wants to feel how strong he is, and he presses so hard it hurts her, and excites her all the same.

There is no question that either will disrobe. Why?

This is who she is. This is who _he_ is. That is why it works.

The edge of his face-plate runs along the curve where her armour covers her shoulder. It’s somehow more intimate than kissing. and she’s parting her legs just a little. His knee slips between hers, and his thigh grinds the smooth shape of her shell against her.

No procreation. Not this. This is something else, and he feels the way her breathing rasps harder and her thighs clench around his own. His clothing is less restrictive, less… difficult. It hurts him to rub so awkwardly against her, but it excites him, all the same. Such a _deviant_ thing, and the ridiculous inversion of all he was ever taught makes his cock fill fuller still.

Kiss her, stroke her, talk to her. Touch her all over. Make her want it. He remembers all those lessons, and ignores them. She doesn’t want his lips on her earlobe, or his fingers in her hair. She wants the pressure of him rocking and grinding, pushing the exoskeleton that really is her _insides_ against her _outsides._ She wants the pain of friction, the incompleteness and the _wrongness._ She wants her sex to ache from the raw rubbing, wants the pain to be what gets her over the edge. She wants - she wants _him_  - and he wants **her** , and when he soils the inside of his clothes and leaves only a condensation mark against her leg…

He knows it was the right thing to do.

Black. Hides a multitude of sins.

Or is one.


End file.
